


Only Fiction Has Happy Endings

by Blue_Jay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fallen Angels, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Raised Apart, Roommates, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Stanford University, reset
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Jay/pseuds/Blue_Jay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of four, Dean Winchester goes missing. Eighteen years later, Sam Winchester meets Dean Harvelle, his new roommate at Stanford. Castiel sees a coincidence and thinks it's hilarious until it isn't anymore. </p><p>Or, God hit a reset button after Metatron took over Heaven. Castiel thinks He probably hadn't imagined this as an outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I hate raised apart AUs, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone. So, I present to you a story of university life, amnesiac Fallen Angels, an anthology of massive importance, and accidental incest. Team Freewill being adorable roommates and John Winchester/Naomi/Michael not being complete dicks are complimentary. 
> 
> (also Naomi died and I hated it so I made her a good guy)
> 
> (plus she kind of looks like my aunt which is kind of awkward for a villain)

Dad drops him off but doesn't help move him in. Sam knows he wants to but he can't; there's a hunt that he temporarily dropped to bring him this far a few towns away and it's the type he wouldn't be allowed to go on anyway. Neither of them is particularly touchy-feely and this is awkward enough as is, so the split ends with a pat on the back. Though he's excited for school, he feels a little nauseous at the same time. This is a dream he'd had since he was fourteen but this isn't the way he wanted it to happen.

His room is 220A in Bennett Apartments, the on-campus housing rarely given to eighteen-year-olds but with the help of temp. jobs, Bobby, credit card fraud, and hustling pool, he'd taken enough AP tests to begin as a sophomore. The Orientation leader sitting underneath the overhead in a metal chair that must hurt gives him his ID and combo to get into his apartment. Her nametag is upside down and reads  _Becky Rosen, Junior_ , words barely legible from the glare of the sun. It's September nineteenth and the California summer is burning. Even so, he feels exposed in his t-shirt and jeans but he wants to blend in. There's cover up on his arms to take care of the scarring from various hunts or having to show proof that he isn't a shapeshifter. He has a folded up exorcism in his left pocket even though it's the type of "repeat it in his sleep" thing. Having it close makes his feel better is all. His own fucked up security blanket.

Upside Down Becky tells him his room is the furthest corner in the C side. When he smiles and thanks her, the expression of her face changes from mild interest to intense interest, a look he's seen more than once by this point. He doesn't feel like saying he's not up to a relationship right now so he thanks her again and leaves with an awkward goodbye. The boy behind him is wearing a grey shirt with a high school Varsity logo on the back. A few papers blow off the table as he walks away even though there's no wind and he forces himself to calm down, to try to slow the hunter instincts to notice everything.

No one bothers to look at him while he makes his way to his apartment, only a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder and carry-on filled with blankets, sheets, and towels. The blanket was a present from Bobby when he found out Sam had been accepted to Stanford even though he and Dad didn't get along anymore; the other stuff comes from their renting supply and haven't been used in a while now that they'd been splitting up for solo hunts for over a year. The door is where Becky Rosen said it was and the building is built kind of similar to the numerous motels found scattered across the western coast with two floors and rooms leading directly outside rather than into hallways like actual dorm halls.

Or at least that's how he thinks dorm halls are like. He's never actually been in one and is going after assumptions from what he's seen in movies.

The paper with the code reads  _5(42)31_. The  _(42)_ means he has to hold both buttons at the same time. They click when he does and the hinges squeak the door opens. The first room is a living room thing with a shelf against the wall, an actually comfortable looking couch, and a round table situated next to a large glass window with some pink flowering tree right outside. The walk on the way here was ridged with palm trees. On the right there's a bathroom and the room directly across from the front door is the bedroom—one bunked, one raised. He takes the bottom bunk because he's here alone. Easier to get out if something attacks and he's Sam Winchester, so that's going to happen eventually.

Right after he finishes drawing a devil's trap in chalk under his bed, the door opens. He's been here half an hour, the sheets and blankets already done up, clothes away in the dresser and books organized in the desk. His laptop's in the top drawer and the few weapons he brought with him hidden.

The guy grins when he sees him and a woman who must be his mom is right behind him. They're both wearing plaid. Dad would approve. "Hey," Green Eyes says. "Sam Connors, right?"

"Yeah," he answers with a smile of his own. He wanted to keep his real name but it isn't considered safe enough to be allowed.

"Dean Harvelle," he says. Dean like his brother who went missing when he was six months old. He shouldn't mention this next phone call. "This is my mom."

"Ellen," the woman adds and they shake hands. "You here alone, Sam?"

Neither of them sounds like they're from California, accents more like his, what one of his eighth grade teachers called a flat Midwestern. "Yeah." He tries to make it come across that he isn't bothered by it because he isn't and that's not normal. He has to pass for normal here. "Dad had to work. Nice to meet you. Um, Dean, I took the bottom bunk. Is that okay?"

Again, the guy smiles. "Transfer student?" he asks. "In Stanford you move around the rooms, so it's not a problem. We can just lower the bed."

He hadn't really read the email about housing as well as he should have, but he vaguely remembers this. "First year, actually," he says awkwardly, following the Harvelles back into the bedroom. "AP tests shoved me up."

"A first year scored Bennett? That takes skill, man. I'm a senior."

Dean doesn't seem to have much stuff either, which is nice. "What about the Novak kid?" he says because the first name is weird and he doesn't want to risk pronouncing it incorrectly. "Or do you guys not know each other?"

"A senior too." Ellen starts on the bed, giving her son an annoyed look that means  _you're in your twenties, you should know how to do this by now_. He knows the face first hand, even though for him it meant his inability to cook. "We got to choose housing. Couldn't find a third roommate, so we went for random."

"Don't worry, kid," his mom says, apparently detecting what little disappointment must show on his face, "the dynamic duo here ain't that exclusive. Where is Cas anyways?"

With a shrug, Dean answers, "Probably delayed flight or something. Where're you from, Sam?"

He blinks, not expecting the conversation to turn back on him. "Kansas," he says even though he's not actually in the state all that often, and the only time he's ever been to Lawrence was a curiosity trip Dad never found out about, the result of one of his visions. It ended with his mom burning in front of him and apologizing without explanation. He wonders what she should've thought of him making it to a school like this. "You?"

"Nebraska." Something about the last name Harvelle mixed with Nebraska reminds him of his job but he can't remember in what context. "Cas is from Boston."

The three of them talk for a little about majors (Sam's pre-law even though he can never do anything with it and Dean's engineering and mythology, which he thinks is a cool combination) and what professors to take and not to take. He isn't used to making small talk. Even in the schools he went to, he was typically the kid to keep his head down and avoid trouble and talking with other hunters wasn't quite like talking to normal people. He'd been so excited about college but already felt uncomfortable. Maybe he'd feel better if his arms were covered up and he was dressed like he usually was. Living in close quarters with two other boys was going to be difficult.

Around two, his third roommate shows up, alone like him and dead exhausted looking. "You must be Sam," he says, voice surprisingly blank and deep, after saying hello to the other two. Ellen gave him a hug, though she didn't look much like the hugging type. He's tall but short compared to Sam and Dean and he thinks he lucked out in not getting some five-six roommates who would make him feel even bigger than usual.

"Yeah," he answers, shaking his hand because it's polite. "You're…Castiel, right?"

The two other boys exchange a look before Dean says, "Got his name on the first try. Congrats to you, Sammy."

The nickname catches him by surprise but for once he doesn't snap at it. For whatever reason, it sounds kind of normal from this guy. "I better go," Ellen says. "Promised Jo I'd stop by NSC on my way back." Everyone gets a hug again, including him, and she adds, "Real good meeting you, Sam."

Everything about this place is throwing him off balance but he manages to squeak out a "you too" before she leaves. Then he and the others are alone and for him it feels awkward, but considering the relaxed postures of Dean and Castiel, he thinks it's just him.

The rest of the day is spent setting up the apartment, though there isn't much. Dean's got a small television and fridge in the backseat of a 67' Chevy Impala like Sam's dad used to own before his oldest son was born (the coincidences are starting to get to him) that he's obviously proud of and with a joint effort, the three of them get the boxes through the parking lot and up the stairs and put them both in the living room area. Within an hour, the bathroom's also filled with different hygiene sets and with the exception of Cas' extra desk lamp and couple of pictures each, none of them really had anything else to add. He feels a little relieved at that because it means he isn't the only one not about to cover the place in decorations. He finds out midway through setting up the Xbox that Castiel doesn't like to be called by his full name, grew up in a house with two brothers and a single mom, and majors in physics.

Ellen said they weren't exclusive. If the first four hours are any indication, it seems like she's right and this gives him hope. They act pretty chill too, which lowers the chance of exploding light bulbs and moving objects. And he'd been better at keeping the hallucinations under control too. Dad had known he wanted to go to school since he'd never kept it a secret how much he wanted to get out of life, but now he's here because he knows there  _is_ no way to leave. Not for him. Fucking demons and their fucking blood and the fucking proof that he really is the reason Mom died and his brother disappeared.

"Want to go get pizza?" Dean asks. "My treat."

Sam agrees, and follows them out the door.

 

 

Despite how twitchy he is, Sam seems like a pretty cool guy. It was going to be weird, though, having to go back to hiding his stuff, something he hasn't had to do in his actual dorm room since first semester sophomore year when he and Cas (who found out freshman year the hard way) ended up with the biggest dick of a third roommate. He can't really picture this new kid taking the idea of having weapons in the room all that well, or protection symbols on the wall. He also seems like the type to rationalize even hard proof into something normal. Civvies like that are idiots, but not intolerable and he was able to hook up everything faster than either of them could.

They end up going to the pizza place ten minutes or so from Bennett where Cas works and can get them free food, walking instead of driving because Dean's the only one with a car and the Impala needs gas, something he'll get first thing in the morning. It's Monday with classes starting tomorrow. Sam really should've come a week ago for Orientation but he squeaked by into complicated territory, even for a kid going to an Ivy League school. He's a sophomore without being a transfer student.

Cas tells him, "I can show you around later if you want. I worked as an Orientation leader last year."

Sam is holding his pizza folded in half like a New Yorker. His accent doesn't sound quite Kansas, either. Actually, it doesn't sound much like anything. "Thanks," he says. "I never exactly went to the campus visitation day. Kind of far away."

"Got my car that year," Dean says. "Wanted an excuse to drive it, so I grabbed my sister and we came together." Jo had been  _thrilled_ Mom let her come, sixteen at the time and not allowed to hunt even though he'd been doing it for years.

"Gabriel wanted an excuse for a vacation," Cas says, "and it didn't really take much to convince Mike to come too. My mom thought we were idiots, but all my brothers are in their twenties so there wasn't much she could do about it."

The kid fidgets in his seat. "Yeah, I don't really know what I was doing," he admits, looking guilty for it and Dean understands the feeling. Sure, the Roadhouse makes more money than most people would expect, but its main patrons barely had enough money for five rounds a lot of time because no one dares try credit fraud on his mom. Going to a place like Stanford is basically a culture shock.

Unlike Nebraska, food here is actually good and he'd been waiting all summer to head back to California. For whatever reason, most hunts seemed to be focused in the South these past few months, or at least the ones that hit the papers. "Most first years don't," he says. "We sure as hell didn't."

"I knew what I was doing."

Glancing at his friend, he says, "No you didn't. I spent the first week and a half making sure you knew where everything in campus was."

Cas rolls his eyes. "At least I knew my way around the school website to do class registration and book rentals."

"Only because you called Mike and made him help you out." He looks back at Sam, not wanting to block him out. Normally he really wouldn't bother because he hasn't seen his friend at all since May, but this is their new roommate and it'll suck if they all hate each other. He should know; they went through that their sophomore year with Zach. "Uh, yeah. Basically the first two weeks of your first year will suck because you'll be clueless."

The kid smiles and Dean doesn't normally notice this kind of thing, but he has dimples. Really, really noticeable dimples. "S'long as it gets better, I really don't care," he says. "Oh, one question, though: where do I apply for work study?"

"Anywhere," Cas answers. "I can see about getting you a job in housing if you don't want to run to every job on campus filling out the same application a thousand times."

"Really? Why?"

With a shrug, his friend says, "Why not?"

Sam smiles again, a little smaller this time, and finishes his first slice. Dean likes that "why not" is good enough for him.

 

 

Cas exits the shower at nine in the morning and his greeting is a phone to his face. He catches it and looks up, finding Dean sitting up in bed, half asleep and still in nothing but his boxers. Sam slips past him, making a beeline for the shower, apparently not the type to talk in the morning. "You got a call," his friend tells him, already sinking back into his mess of pillows and blankets. Seeing him sleeping is rare and Cas immediately feels guilty. "Make sure the person knows no calls before…"

He's out cold before he even finishes the sentence. Caller ID reads  _Gabriel._ If it were Mom or Mike, he could blame it on being an accident but for his middle brother, he knows the time is intended to be annoying and/or piss him off.

"Dean hates you," he tells his brother when the line connects, slipping on his shirt. He'd forgotten apparently when he woke up fifteen minutes ago that getting dressed in the bathroom means bringing all necessary day-to-day clothing. "For the record."

"Eh, Ken Doll will get over it," Gabriel answers because, again, his life's goal is bothering those around him into insanity probably. He loves but brother but  _really._  "Just calling to wish you good luck on your first day, little bro."

Dean has this amazing ability to sleep through anything he knows is not an immediate threat which is probably a good thing. He makes a mental note to switch his ringtone to something besides default so it doesn't match. Phone calls generally count as emergencies. "I'm not a freshman," he says, irritated. "And it's nine in the morning, Gabriel. My roommates don't need to be awake this early."

"Roommates?" his brother repeats. "Who's the newbie?"

"Yeah. Random, remember? The guy's name is Sam Connors."

For a moment neither of them say anything before Gabriel suddenly bursts out in that overdramatic laughter of his. Cas sighs, knowing exactly what this is. "Dude, you're kidding," he says. "Sam, Dean, and Castiel."

"Yeah, yeah." He'd noticed that too when he got the email and the only one home was Mike. They laughed so hard Cas actually teared up.

"Don't forget to call Mom to let her know you're okay. And give your wayward angels my love, Cassie!"

"Bite me, Gabriel."

He ends the call so he doesn't have to listen to his brother anymore, resisting the urge to throw his phone at the wall. Sam comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed and his wet hair sticking out at all angles. Sam, Dean, and Castiel. He's not sure if this counts as irony, coincidence, or both.

As he picks up his backpack, the kid asks, "You gone to breakfast yet?"

He shakes his head. "I was about to leave. I've got class at ten."

"Me too. Mind if I come with you?"

He glances at Dean, who's still out cold. Cas was betting on another half hour. "Of course," he answers, moving his attention back to Sam. "What class?"

"Freshman seminar," he says, looking down at the schedule he has pulled up from his phone, "with Professor…Jesus, I can't even figure out how to pronounce that."

Cas snatches the phone from his hand and exits the room, the other boy following without complaint. It's a picture, obviously a screenshot from the school website. "Professor Matthew Samandriel," he reads, having to hold the phone close to his face to actually see it. "I had him last year. He's adjunct, about twenty-five, and looks like he's two."

As he hands it back, Sam says, "So is he a good teacher?"

"I'm pretty sure a swarm of bees could teach freshman seminar," he answers. "Professors don't really need to do anything, just teach you to say no to drugs and remember that college isn't just partying. I had him for Hebrew one."

Since it's nine o' clock on a Tuesday and the first day of school, not many people are walking around. Most upperclassmen try to snag the afternoon and night classes, working during the day. "Sounds fun," says his roommate without enthusiasm. "Why Hebrew?"

With a shrug, he answers, "Just felt like it. I needed a language and I knew freshman would try for Spanish or French or something and didn't feel like stealing a spot. As it turns out, I picked up on it quickly."

"I'm going with Russian," Sam tells him. "My uncle taught me how to speak it because I was bored."

"You decided to study Russian because you were  _bored?_ "

And Dean called him insane.

"I like learning."

"Well, then you came to the right place. Hurrah for Ivy League, right?"

The kid smiles a lot, which he likes. Cas is more like his mom and Michael, his oldest brother, and doesn't all that often, but Sam seems a lot like Dean. "Yeah," he says, but doesn't elaborate.

There's a lot Cas doesn't believe in (namely fate or destiny because that utter lack of freewill sounds like bullshit, he personally thinks), but something about their three names smashed together sounds right. This year isn't going to turn out like the one with Zach, and if this kid finds found about Dean, maybe he won't freak out and maybe it'll be fine.

Because it got Michael to laugh, and that's good enough for him.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting it harder work than it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I am aware that four more than eighteen is twenty-two.
> 
> That'll make sense soon enough.

On his second day, Jo calls him three times, half-hysterical, first about her roommate Anna Milton, then about Frank Devereaux, a paranoid security expert who used to frequent the Roadhouse and apparently became a technology professor at NSC, and finally because she got a spider in her room. Cas thinks she's insane because his sister rarely does more than text or Skype him unless there's a potential, only-take-a-weekend hunt, and it seems like they lucked out with Sam because he didn't mind first time the phone went off at seven in the morning. Yeah, officially the calmest first year in existence.

"Everything okay?" said first year asks as he rejoins his roommates at the table where they're playing cards for who has to pay for dinner tonight. If it were up to Dean, they'd have more free pizza but Cas started up work again yesterday and the last thing he wants is anything involving tomato sauce.

As he picks up his cards (not hustling, and it feels good to play an honest game once in a while even just between friends), he answers, "Yeah. Just Jo being Jo. Apparently her roommate likes waking up at six in the morning."

"You won't hear that ringtone a lot," Cas tells Sam, putting down three Queens. Lucky bastard. "His sister doesn't call much."

"What's that like?" Sam says, dropping a Six and picking up from the deck. "You know, having siblings annoy you with calls and stuff. You get it too."

He exchanges a look with Cas. That's never really been a question asked before, though sometimes hunters will wistfully talk about their own siblings and how they wished they didn't fight with theirs. Even though he and Jo fought at least twice a day, they managed to keep that out of patrons' public knowledge.

Looking back at their new roommate, he says, "I don't know. Half our phone calls are arguing."

"Not always," adds Cas with a frown. "Gabriel and I fight all the time but Mike and I don't. But, uh, I'm the youngest brother out a three, so I guess it's a little different. Only child?"

Sam nods. "I had a brother," he says, "but I don't remember him. It's just been my dad and me since I was six months old—please don't do the 'I'm sorry' thing, I really don't know how to respond."

Though Dean was about to say it because that's basically a conditioned response, he gets it. Even though he remembers his dad, he died before he or Jo could see over one of the barstools and he doesn't really know how to respond anymore either. And he gets it  _a lot_ considering any hunter who's ever walked into the Roadhouse (which isn't all of them, but he didn't figure that out until he was ten) knows the name Harvelle, even if he understandably looks nothing like the rest of his family. "I'm adopted," he says. "Don't really remember anything before the age of about three, 'cept my name."

For a moment, a look passes over the kid's face that he can't quite tell the meaning of before he says, "Interesting. Any family-life things for you, Cas?"

"Not really," he answers, and wins the round. Dean sighs, collects the cards, and starts to shuffle. "My parents split, haven't talk to my dad in years, and grew up with my brothers Gabriel, an overgrown five-year-old, and Mike, who shares a full name with my high school history teacher."

There's a lot more than that, Dean knows, but he gets why his friend isn't explaining his life story. He hadn't exactly and Sam's trying to pass himself off as some average guy, but being a hunter means being able to read people and the kid's good at pretending but not  _that_ good. "Mike Novak?" Sam says. "Isn't that also the name of a model?"

Cas blinks. "Yeah, actually," he says. "How'd you know that?"

"Knew a girl in high school who had a picture of him on the cover of all her notebooks and those Book Sox things."

"That's, uh, legitimately creepy," Dean says and Sam nods before burning his King and dropping a Six of Spades, grinning. "Oh, fuck you, Connors."

With a scowl, Cas puts down the rest of his cards and tells them, "The brat won. I've been keeping count in my head. I'll go get dinner."

"I'm not a brat."

"Dude, you're like eighteen."

"You two are only twenty-one!"

Dean laughs and Cas stands, grabbing a windbreaker off the back of his chair. "Place your order, Sam. Already know what he wants."

They're getting Chinese tonight. Sam asks for what's essentially rabbit food and their roommate leaves, slipping out the door. Outside it's raining, the normal muggy heat dulled a good ten degrees with the humidity racked up worse than usual. If Jo were here, she'd have a headache by now. And she still thinks her gender's the reason Mom let him hunt when he was a kid but not her.

As he cleans up the cards, he asks, "Hey, you want to see a movie tonight? We finally got a connector cable and endless use of illegal viewing websites."

Sam smiles. "Sure," he answers. "What movie?"

"Gotta wait for Cas to come back for that," he says. "Anything you refuse to watch?"

"Bad romance movies," he says immediately. "Every time I see a clip of one I feel my IQ drop."

With a smirk, Dean says, "They drop the IQ of the whole block."

"You watch  _Sherlock_?" The kid's smile grows.

At that, Cas returns, balancing bags in his hands. Sam rushes over and immediately helps. The place is right down the street and the cook must know school started because this is a Friday night with their food already prepared and presumably rabbit food doesn't take long to make. "He watches your favorite show," Dean tells him as they put everything on the table. When home, his mom or Ash makes dinner and breakfast is usually waffles, so when he goes to school or out on a hunt, he has a tendency to head for a diner (no one in his family can make decent pie) or take-out.

Cas blinks, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Someone else on this campus watches BBC shows other than me?"

Sam pulls off the plastic cap to his broccoli thing. Dean sticks with the sweet and sour chicken. "Yeah," the kid answers. " _Sherlock_ and  _Being Human._  Haven't gotten around to  _Doctor Who_ yet, though."

" _Being Human_?" Dean repeats. "What's that? Cas, have you been holding out on me?"

With a shrug, the other senior says, "Never got a chance to watch it. What is it anyway?"

As usual, Dean douses his food in soy sauce. "A ghost, a werewolf, and a vampire all life in a bright pink house and suffer through trying to come across as humans and really shitty BBC effects," Sam says, mixing the broccoli with rice. "It's really inaccu—interesting."

Even though he tried to cover it, the stumble was obvious. Cas glances at him, having obviously noticed it too. "We can watch the pilot," he says. "You know, instead of a movie."

The look on the kid's face is halfway between hopeful and surprised. "Seriously?" he says. "I'm not—Dad always said that sort of stuff was ridiculous. It's the sort of show I watch when I get really sick."

Cas snaps the chopsticks and starts on the dumplings, still standing. The guy's weird like that. "What about your friends?"

"I, uh—" It's obvious immediately that was the wrong thing to say when Sam ducks his head a little and peaks through his hair. "You know. That one weird kid that got sick all the time and had to miss school. I got into Stanford because I basically had nothing else to do besides homework and watching random shows or movies on my laptop—and don't worry, I don't really get sick anymore and when I do, it's not contagious or anything."

And he's never really been good with boundaries, he doesn't feel all that bad when he asks, "What's wrong?"

"Migraines," Sam answers. "I'm getting better at handling them."

"Oh, that sucks."

Something tells Dean he's lying. He just can't figure out why.

.

 _Migraines._  Of all the damn excuses he goes and picks  _migraines._

Truthfully, he's just so fucking done with lying but it's not like he can tell anyone the truth without getting thrown in a straightjacket. He stares up at the bunk above him where Cas sleeps, wishing he put a sheet there or something so he didn't need to see the springs. He also wishes sleep wasn't a mandatory thing for the human body or he'd quit it the way people quit smoking. He doesn't sleep much and tries to hide it because he doesn't like nightmares. Much harder to cover up than hallucinations anyway, but being at Stanford surrounded by people other than his dad seems to have calmed him down a little, the lack of stress making everything a little more manageable.

It's been a week without a vision, too, and he supposes that's a good thing though his record since he turned sixteen is a month. Knowing his luck, when he finally does have one, it'll be in the middle of class or something. Or on a Monday. Hunting—well, he wanted to get out of the hunting life, sure, but when something like that happens, he wants to be there. Not that he's allowed or anything, what with the whole Yellow-Eyes' favoritism thing going on. It would be  _awesome_ if he could give Cas and Dean a heads up about that, too, or if he could live in a single. He's sure his job in housing could get him a free room, or at least a discount that his scholarship money would cover. Then he wouldn't be putting people in danger anymore.

God, he hates to think about how that conversation would go.  _Hi, guys, just so you know I hunt monsters for a living and see visions of people dying before it happens! Oh, and a demon might come eventually and try to kill you just for knowing who I am. Great talk!_  Yeah, he's a freak on so many levels but that doesn't mean anyone has to know it. At least not here, anyway.

Around two, he finally can't take it anymore and stands up, slipping out of the bedroom. Cas is sleeping on his stomach, one foot poking out under the covers and Dean's…awake. Sam doesn't even see him to know that. Out in the kitchen he gets himself a glass of water and leans back against the counter. His eyes hurt, he's congested. This is California in the summer and he hasn't exhibited environmental allergies since he was a toddler but it's so humid that he doesn't think that matters much. He left his phone charging on his desk, and he doesn't want to call Dad but he knows even if he's asleep, Bobby will pick up. And he's starting to think he needs someone to talk to because he feels trapped in his own—

The floor creaks. He looks over and Dean is there, rubbing one eye. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah," he answers, putting his glass in the sink and leaning against the counter. "I'm an insomniac. You?"

Dean pulls up his shirt, revealing a huge bug bite. "Won't stop itching," he says and Sam thinks there's something besides that. As he drops his shirt, he adds, "Happens every year. Charlie, this chick me and Cas are friends with, says the only reason she hangs out with me is that I absorb all the mosquitoes in a ten mile radius."

"Last time I went to Florida I forgot bug spray," he tells him and wonders why the Hell they're having this conversation at two in the morning. "Same thing. Who's Charlie?"

"A computer geek," the other boy says. "She transferred in my sophomore year. You'll meet her eventually."

Sam nods, unable to think of anything to say. He's too tired for this but can't sleep. He likes his roommates, but he still wishes he had a single. Eventually he'll freak out over one thing or another (the medication isn't a one hundred percent guarantee and it doesn't cover demon blood induced Hell-o-visions anyway), but he'd rather  _not_ have it happen within the first week of school. On the other hand, sleep deprivation might speed up the process.

After a moment, he says, "You should get that eucalyptus stuff. It's s'posed to stop the itching from bug bites and poison ivy and all that."

"Eucalyptus stuff?"

"It's a cream. I'll show you tomorrow. This is California; pretty sure there has to be a 'health conscientious' store around here somewhere."

This gets his friend to crack a smile. So, a thing that kind of sucks: his roommates are both really attractive but Dean's a little  _too_ hot. "True," he says, a gets himself a glass of water too.

Sam's about ninety percent sure Dean's never been attracted to a guy in his life, which sucks. 'Course, for him it's kind of rare too and he doesn't have a crush or whatever it's called, but still. He's unfairly attractive.

Shaking his over-exhaustion thoughts from his head, he says, "Well, I think I'm going to try to sleep. Have to get up for work kind of early tomorrow."

"Joys of bartending," his roommate says. "I work until closing tomorrow though, but whatever."

They both give halfhearted goodnights before Sam slips back into the room and buries himself under the covers despite the heat. He's asleep within minutes.

For once, he doesn't dream.

.

On Saturdays and Sundays, Cas works from noon to nine at night at the local pizza place as a delivery boy, using one of the establishment's provided cars. Or, at least that's what he normally does. Looks like today he's stuck behind the counter.

"Could be worse," Meg says, twirling a brown curl around her finger. Noon is always slow, even on weekends.

He looks down and pulls uncomfortably on the polyester shirt. When he delivers, he doesn't have to wear the stupid uniform. "How?" he asks and gives up, deciding there's no way to be comfortable. With the exception of rec sports teams, no one actually eats here. Maybe he should just call Sam or Dean or both and force them to come over to annoy him. The only reason he's here, after all, is because both Balthazar and Becky flaked today.

"You could be working behind the counter at Julius Squeezers," she answers.

He nods absentmindedly, acknowledging that what she says is entirely true. Her shirt is a polo and polyester like his but bright yellow with  _Squeeze Me!_ written across the front in big, orange letters; Meg wears it inside out or backwards depending on the day. "Still under the impression your boss is a demon?"

As she finally stops playing with her hair, she says, "No. I think Lucky the Leprechaun got upgraded to Satan."

Sometimes she reminds him a lot of Dean and it kind of scares him. "So, you guys haven't gotten any better during your break?"

"Our relationship has changed from frosty to cold," she answers as her cell phone alarm goes off. "Looks like I need to journey back through the Gates of Hell. I'll make sure to order that pizza later, Clarence."

She ruffles his hair because apparently it's better messy before hopping off the counter and heading to leave. As she exits, Dean enters and they spend about a minute in a conversation he can't hear before splitting different ways. "She's going to make the world's weirdest psychologist," his roommate says as he comes closer.

By this point, he doesn't bother to wait for an order before getting two slices. Maybe Dean sensed a telepathic call for help. Either that, or Cas told him he was working counter but was too tired to remember. "I know, right?" he answers, slipping the plate onto the table. He's alone in the store and won't get in trouble for letting people loiter. When he sees his friend go for his pocket where the money is, he continues, "I'll make it on the house if you cook dinner tonight."

Dean scowls and says, "Anyone tell you you're a dick, Cas?" but he's already started on the first slice of pizza which means he'll do it.

"You're the one who decided to room with me."

His friend smiles slightly and looks up at the old television hanging above the rack of garlic bread about five degrees too cold by now. It's one of those soap operas no one ever pays attention to but became a running joke between the two of them their freshman year because there's this actor who looks an awful lot like Dean with floppier, blonder hair.

"Everyone makes mistakes," he answers. "Oh, and if I have to make dinner, you're buying me pie."

Though he'll never understand Dean's obsession with pie (and now he wonders what Sam'll think), he's not really complaining. It tastes good, and that's what matters. "If I can't find cherry, what do you want?"

With a shrug, he says, "Get whatever."

The soap opera cuts to a  _Trojan_ commercial that always seems to enthrall his boss, who Dean likes to call Junkless. Then again, his real name's Uriel which isn't much of a step up. "Okay," he says, and breaks off some of the second slice's crust because it's actually good here. "We should see if Charlie wants to come."

"No point." Dean finishes the first slice and starts on the second, not commenting when Cas steals more crust. "It's the last weekend of the month, remember?"

Last weekend of the month mean she's going to that LARP thing the two of them pretend not to be curious about. Gabriel used to go to one near Boston sometimes back when he was in college, but all that ended when he graduated. Neither Cas nor Mike had much interest in that sort of thing, but his brother played a character he called the Trickster and they called Weasley behind his back. Sometimes he thinks that Mom's psychic because their names were  _way_ too accurate.

"Whatever," he says. "Next time, I guess. Think Sam'll be around?"

Even as he says it, he knows it was a dumb question. "Unless he's in the library, yeah, definitely," Dean says. "I mean, he's a pre-law major. All he ever does is homework."

"I've seen him talk to people." Rarely, sure, but he has. "He had breakfast at the DC with some guy named Brady a few days ago and I've seen him talk to Jess."

"Better or worse at talking to chicks than you are?"

"Hey, I can talk to girls," he says, only slightly defensive because he knows it's true. "I'm fine with Charlie and Meg."

Dean finishes the pizza and hands Cas what's rest of the crust. "Yeah," he says, "but one's a lesbian and the other might as well be a boy. Doesn't really count." The bell jingles and a guy from his sociology class enters. "Well, that's my cue to leave. Don't forget the pie."

"Yeah, yeah." He smiles at the guy, knowing that it must look completely forced. "Hi, welcome to Luigi's. Pick up or order?"

It's actually astounding, the degree to which he hates his job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because Meg and Cas interacted doesn't mean they're going to be a pairing. Meg's just my favorite character. I feel the need to say that because of the number of people who seriously hate them together. 
> 
> On a similar note, should I bother to put him with anyone? Except for Dean, I mean, because he and Sam are already a pairing (sorry to the person who requested destiel via a comment, hope it doesn't turn you away from the story).


	3. Chapter 3

Today is a Bad Day.

Sam knows it's going to be the moment he wakes up five minutes before his nine o'clock weekday time to an eyeful of hellfire. Rather than freak out, he groans and pulls the blankets over his head, screwing his eyes shut until it passed. He's still lucid enough to know that though this sucks, it isn't real. And it really does suck because, well, it's not like he's ever been to Hell before. The Yellow-Eyed Demon has just screwed with his head too many times and even two years later, he still wonders where the fuck he got the idea of angels from because every hunter knows there's no such thing (the one solo gig with the church and that delusional ghost was proof enough).

So. He's not scared, not really. This is going to be a Bad Day but isn't yet. Not when he still knows what's real and what's—

"Hey, kid, you okay?"

 _Dean._  And English. Not some weird made up language. Taking a deep breath, he peels the blankets off of himself, looking up at his roommate and those unrealistically green eyes. There's no green in Hell. A demon told him that once when the sudden influx started. "Just don't want to get up," he answers with the best sarcastic smile he can manage and gets out of bed. "I hate Tuesdays." He's been at Stanford for two weeks and a day.

"Everyone hates Tuesdays, Sammy," Dean points out and he finally gets out of bed, not bothering to comment on the nickname because it  _still_ doesn't irritate him. "Not as bad as Mondays though, right?"

In the past year alone, Bobby's heard of thirty-six accounts of possession. And those are only ones they know about.

His head hurts, which isn't good. He had taken his medication last night, right? Fuck, maybe he hadn't. Or maybe this is just leading up to something that'll drag him away from school come Friday if he can convince his dad that he'll be safe. "I guess," he answers, though it isn't true. Ever since he was a kid, he's had an irrational hatred of Tuesdays. Caleb once, when Dad wasn't there, said maybe the psychic thing had to do with it. Maybe his mom died on a Tuesday.

But she didn't. Mom died on a Thursday.

He adds, "I'm going to go take a shower," and stumbles towards the bathroom before Dean can say anything. He wonders vaguely where Cas before realizing it's already nine and they both have class in an hour. Oh yeah. Fuck.

Today he doesn't use any hot water, just soaks himself in what's nearly ice until he's shivering. For the most part he can deal with the typical warm most people use, but sometimes he needs burning and other days he needs cold depending on the nightmare. Having a hallucination the moment he wakes up is rare but this is what he gets for wearing himself down like that. And he needs to talk to someone because it's been a little under a week since the trapped feeling started and it hasn't gone away.

Though it's hot out and he's still working on fitting in, he pulls a jacket on once he's back in his room to collect his stuff. He's still a little thrown by that wakeup which was in no way ( _and he's right here, in his Stanford dorm room and that thing with the cold blue eyes and singsong voice is wrong because this is, it is, it is, it is_ ) real. Dean's gone, same as Cas. His phone tells him it's not even nine thirty. He dials Bobby instead of Dad because he might be trying but he still doesn't really get it. The whole psychic thing makes him wary, same as the Demon's mysterious plans for him, and dealing with his son's steadily fracturing sanity freaks him out because it reminds him too much of his friends in the war. And Sam knows this, even if he never says it.

The line connects after the third ring. " _Thought I told you to call me earlier than this, boy_ ," Bobby says, skipping hello.

"Got a little tied up, sorry," he answers, picking up his notebook and stuff his ID in his pocket before leaving. "You know, roommates and school and stuff. What's going on with you?"

He knows the moment he says it that it doesn't come out right and Bobby gets him better than his dad ever did, so he picks up on it instantly. " _Sam, what happened?_ "

"Nothing bad," he says quickly. "I'm okay to go to class and stuff. Kind of rough start to the day. Anyway, anything interesting?"

Bobby doesn't ask what he means and he tells him that his dad's with Caleb, hunting a ruguru, and yesterday night Roy and Walt gave him a call because a witch swapped their bodies. Sam laughs; it's about as much as they deserve. They've always been dicks, fumbling around and they're the reason three months ago was his last solo hunt. On the other hand, they're also part of the reason he's in college in the first place. So, they are occasionally useful. Even if he still can't figure out how they're not dead because he's eighteen and better than the two of them combined.

As the conversation begins to wind down because he has class, he remembers something he meant to say a week ago. "Hey, Bobby, can you not tell my dad something for me?"

" _Anything you say dies with me. You know that, son._ "

Running his fingers through his hair, he says, "Well, uh, you know those roommates I was telling you about? One's name is Cas. The other Dean."

A pause. " _Dean? Do you attract the universe's bad jokes or are you just that unlucky?_ "

"The unlucky one, I think," he answers. "I don't know, I think it's kind of funny but it's not like I can say that to Dad. Obviously."

" _Info's safe with me._   _And you damn well better call me later or I'm driving to California and kicking your sorry ass for making me worry._ "

He promises to call before work starts and they hang up so he can join a mass of other students entering the necessary building. Jess is here and she smiles brightly at the sight of him and despite how wired he is, he manages to smile back. Maybe he overreacted and he's calmed down enough that it won't happen. Yeah. That's got be it. This is just an aftershock and nothing is going to happen, he tells him. But he's lying.

Four hours later he's in the shower, alone in the apartment with the water burning, and it takes him thirty minutes just to get his head on straight again.

.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, Cas doesn't have class until two, so he feels entirely justified staying up way later than is probably necessary. Typically, he's not like Dean who can go two nights without sleeping and seem fine until he isn't anymore, or Sam who he's seen sleep even less. But today's it's a little backwards, the youngest roommate crashed and it's only Tuesday morning. Apparently earlier he had a nightmare and now he's been acting weird all day. He's been keeping an eye on the kid as inconspicuously as he can and he's pretty sure Dean's doing the same thing, and though nothing is too notably wrong, everything's still a little…off.

He has a feeling living with a hunter for four years has finally rubbed off on him.

Right now Dean's awake, doing homework for his "Demonology" class he finds laughably easy (it's for his mythology major, apparently, and supposedly he only took it because he doesn't care about French folklore all that much), and Cas finished all of his that's due to tomorrow hours ago. He's unnecessarily stressed, wide awake, and bored, which is not a good combination. First he texts Charlie, then Meg, then Balthazar, and finally Gabriel because he isn't on five different kinds of pills like Mike is. His brother's the only one that answers, and the text is simple:

_Fuck off._

With a quiet sigh, he pushes himself up, leaning over the end of the bed to the dresser he uses to get up and down, and grabs the book on the top of the non-school related stack. It's the fifth book of  _Harry Potter._ Before he went off to school, he bought the whole series again in paperback from that used bookstore in the small alley no one ever noticed so they wouldn't be too heavy to carry. Most of his books came from there— _The Blackbird House, The Hobbit, As I Lay Dying, The Sun Also Rises,_ these, and his childhood anthology  _Only Fiction Has Happy Endings_ bought about twenty-five years ago _._ He'd have grabbed that, but it's at the bottom of the stack and moving all those to reach it without physically climbing down his bed was almost as stupid as picking up his laptop with one hand.

He manages to get fifty pages in before his phone vibrates and he hears Dean's do the same thing. He picks it up, looks down, and finds a group text from Charlie.  _I'm coming over Friday,_ it reads. Though they'd met up with her a few times, she hadn't actually come over yet. Same with Meg or Balthazar and he's sure the same truth must stand for Sam because Cas knows he talks to people other than them. Before either he or Dean can answer, she adds,  _And Dean's cooking._

 _I'm not taking orders_ , his friend answers, and Cas smiles.

 _You're buying what you want_ , he writes.  _We don't have unlimited funds._

_I didn't agree to this._

_I'm asking for your permission_ , Charlie says.  _I trust your cooking over me or Cas. You won't burn the place down._

_Damn straight I won't._

_That was one time._

Dean looks up at him from his bed, one side of his mouth tilted up into a smirk before turning his eyes downwards and sending,  _I think you hurt his feelings._

_Feathers can live! : P_

_I think I can justify killing you._

_But Ron would never hurt his Hermione!_ Then, immediately after,  _*his_

 _Go to sleep_ , Dean texts because Charlie messing up is a basic sign she's tired.  _See you tomorrow._

_Fine, duck._

Cas laughs audibly, gaining an eye roll from his roommate. Autocorrect is possibly the best thing in the world.  _Night_ , he writes at the same time the other two do, and exits the app, double checking to make sure the alarm's set for ten. He doesn't like sleeping late. It's just a thing he's had since he was a kid.

After a moment of waiting to see if the conversation is actually over, he settles back in his bed, flipping back open the book. Barely halfway through the page and his phone vibrates again. When he looks down, he finds that it's Dean and he realizes he doesn't know whether or not Sam is a light sleeper, though the lamp doesn't seem to bother him much.

_Harry potter already?_

Sometimes he forgets how much his friend actually knows about him after living together for four years. Considering that he's stuck in graduate school right after this, he kind of wishes Dean were normal so they could rent an apartment together like typical recent roommate graduates and he wouldn't have to start the process all over with someone else. He luck out, and knows he did, and it seems like he's lucked out with Sam too. As much as he protests against the accusations, he knows that he isn't really all that good with getting along with people. Unfortunately, unless he wants to take up hunting (which might end up a realistic option if the economy continues down the path that it is so even physic majors have a hard time finding work), their friendship will dwindle down to emails, phone calls, and the occasional drop-bys. Oh joy.

_Just tired._

_Then crash. It's passed your bedtime._

_Past. Not passed._

_And Charlie called me the duck._

_I mean duck._

_Dick._

_Frick._

_Give up._

_Make me._

And he does, ending the discussion by simply not answering and ignoring Dean's glare. Sirius is showing Harry the Black family tree where his own name's obliterated. Cas has read this so many times he has parts of it memorized and he'd think that was pathetic if about half the people he meets on campus weren't the same way. Including Dean, and he doesn't know about Sam yet because it's only been two weeks. Charlie calls him Neville because within the first month of the three of them knowing each other, she nicknamed the three of them after Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

To think Mike says he's a geek.

The whole night turns out to be slow going because he can't sleep. At one point he tries to, turning off the bedside lap he has clipped to the rail he doesn't use to get himself down, but it doesn't work. By now, the book is back on the stack where should be and he doesn't want to risk turning it back on because Dean's finally asleep too, so he spends the night fiddling with his cell phone again, reblogging random things of Tumblr, checking Facebook even though he rarely gets notifications actually pertaining to him, and creates a Twitter because why not? He's better at talking to people online than in person, and he still thinks it's silly that his main exception who introduced him to all his other exceptions is a geeky kid who pretends to be cool while lying to most of school because he kills monsters for his not-living.

Okay, so he gets himself into some pretty strange situations and has been running into more and more bizarre coincidences with that book Mom used to read him now that he's gotten to Stanford.  _Only Fiction Has Happy Endings._ He really hopes that Kevin Tran wasn't some sort of psychic who wrote in metaphors or whatever because if Cas has anything to do with that book, then he's looking forward to nothing but—

Moments like this remind him why the term "night blogger" exists. Around six, he finally drifts off into a dream about Meg in scrubs reading him the part with Umbridge and white-wash walls and bees humming in his brain.

.

This week was shit for a thousand different reasons, what with the three of them all going at least one night with barely any sleep, so it's kind of a relief when Charlie finally makes it over to their place Friday. Cas is still at work for another hour and Sam just got back from desk duty, soaked through with rain. Dean isn't such a big fan of wet weather; it makes it hard to see during a hunt and usually results in irritatingly long showers just to get the mud out of all the places it doesn't belong.

"Hey, Your Highness," he says when he opens the door and finds her standing there, clutching a supermarket bag in her hand, one headphone in with the music loud enough that he can hear "Walking on Sunshine." On her shirt is the Triforce. He really does have to wonder how and when he started attracting these kinds of people and why he fits in so well.

She grins and pushes past him, catching sight of Sam too when she says, "Hiya, you the newbie?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam answers, leaning back against the table as she slips the bag on the counter. "Sam—Connors."

Though Charlie misses it, Dean catches the slight hesitation on the kid's name. Even for a hunter, he notices way too much about him and he's not entirely sure he can blame this on living together. "Charlie Bradbury," his friend says and Sam's caught completely off guard by the sudden hug. As he awkwardly returns it, Dean snickers. "Pleased to meet'ya, Sam."

"You too."

The two of them talk majors and classes and he opens the bag, rolling his eyes at the contents. "Stuff to make cheese quesadillas?" he says, turning around and effectively shutting everyone up. "What, the dinosaur chicken nuggets in aisle three too expensive for you, Charlie?"

She shoves his shoulder lightly. "Shut up, Dean. I called Cas, by the way. He's picking up chips and salsa under the conditions I pay him back."

"I hadn't realized 'making dinner' meant actually making dinner," he says, pulling stuff out. "I feel like a housewife."

"No, that's called equality, loser," she answers before opening the fridge and gasping. "Dean Harvelle has  _vegetables?_ "

As he grabs what else he needs to actually make Charlie's promised dinner, Sam says, "My idea, actually. I live off salad."

"Seriously? No wonder you're a twig."

Though he isn't turned around, he can imagine the kid's face, twisted into what he's privately begun to call a Bitch Face to hide his blush. "I, uh, get that a lot. But, no, I'm just really, really picky."

"I became a vegetarian in high school to spite my dad, so I get it," she says before taking out a bag of carrots. "Can I have some?"

"Yeah, sure," he answers as Dean turns on the stupidly little stove. This is the fourth time since he came to school that he's had to actually cook and he wasn't lying when he said he felt like a housewife. Jo would be so proud. "Dean, you want any?"

He actually hates carrots, though it isn't really the taste; when he was younger Pam thought it would be a  _great_ idea to make a one of those cakes with the cream cheese frosting and both he and his sister got really, really sick. Even so, he doesn't feel like explaining this (even Cas doesn't know that story because it's just that embarrassing), so he says instead, "Nah, I'll get my fill of healthy stuff from the salsa."

"I've never met a guy as resistant to good food as you, Dean," Charlie says and when he glances over his shoulder, he sees her flip her hair.

Sam laughs. "I have. My dad's even worse."

"And I thought my incredibly diverse diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches was bad."

They talk for a while about random shit—what's going on with Charlie's LARP, John Wilkes Booth's biggest epic fail in American history, how Professor Hendricksen needed to stop treated his CrimCiv classes like they were life or death—before Cas finally comes back. He's got the bag with the chips and salsa looped over one arm, the plastic handle digging into his elbow, and balancing a stack of homework in his arms.

As Sam puts plates of finished food on the table, Dean asks, "Working counter?"

"More and more," Cas answers, dumping his books on the couch before plopping the chips and salsa in the middle of everything else. "Balthazar got that internship at the theater, so it's just Becky and me until someone else gets hired and Uriel sucks with people too much to actually interact with someone. Hi, Charlie."

"Balthazar got it?" she says, sitting down along with Sam who pops the cap off.

Cas nods. "Found out about two days ago. He's a mentor or something to this kid named Garth."

Dean nearly choked on his beer. "Garth Fitzgerald?" he says. "Short, scrawny? Would be a sophomore? Not a Stanford student?" It only takes him a moment to realize Sam's staring at him with something close to fear, but he'll figure that out later if he remembers because it's gone a moment later.

"Balthy just said he was doing it for kicks, not a school requirement, so, yeah, I guess."

Before he can say anything, Sam cuts in, "Is his name really Balthazar? I've been meaning to ask but it's kind of a weird question."

"It's actually Sebastian," Charlie says, "but he got made fun of as a kid for being named after the lobster in  _The Little Mermaid_  so he's joined the troops of call-me-by-my-last-name people. Stanford practically has an army of them."

The quesadillas are actually pretty good all things considered and he is so, so thankful his dad taught him how to cook when he was a kid. Women go through childbirth, so the men might as well know their way around the stove, he used to say, and that was long before Dean really had a concept of what sexism was so he didn't know how unusual that stand point is. Mom used to make desserts because at one point she wasn't so rough around the edges near her kids and husband, but the pies stopped after Dad was killed on a hunt and he wasn't allowed to go on another one for five years.

"I was always that kid," Sam stays, folding his in half the way New Yorkers do their pizza. "Didn't really like it though. Had kind of a negative connotation."

"Most people here thought I did it," Cas says. "Castiel doesn't really sound like a first name."

Outside is pouring, he's the only of here not in some stage of wetness, on his desk is a mountain of homework due on Monday, and he's itching for a hunt he hasn't found. But he's got his friends and a week's worth of pointless conversation and maybe he'll even be able to sleep tonight. All in all, a pretty good way to end the first two weeks of school.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's officially a secondary pairing of Megstiel.
> 
> Also, if you see a note at the bottom, it's not supposed to be there and I can't get rid of it.

Bobby calls him the moment Professor Samandriel walks into class and he hangs up before it can reach voicemail. The moment freshman seminar ends, Sam's got his phone pressed against his ear, listening to it ring. The older hunter picks up immediately.

"Hey, Bobby," he says and he knows he sounds a lot happier than the last time they talked. "What's going on?"

" _You said your roommates' names are Dean and Cas, right?_ " he answers, taking Sam by surprise. Getting call about his living situation isn't exactly something he expected.

He shoots Jess a smile as she tries to make it over, but her face falls as she walks away, seeing he's preoccupied. "Yeah," he says, feeling guilty. "Why? You know them?"

And Bobby sounds legitimately nervous was he asks, " _Are their full names Dean Harvelle and Castiel Novak?_ "

Sam narrowly avoids walking into a wall. "What's going on?" he says again. "How do you know them? Is this—?"

" _Dean Harvelle is a hunter. Son of Ellen, owner of the Roadhouse, which is something of a hunter hangout. I'd forgotten he was in college, let alone Stanford,_ " the other man says, and he feels legitimately sick right now. " _Cas isn't, though. Just remember him from Ellen mentioning him once. You ain't calling yourself Winchester, right?_ "

A hunter. Of all the goddamn bad luck in the world, he's rooming with another hunter. This can either be a disaster if Gordon Walker happens to frequent that place and spilled that whole psychic thing, or kind of awesome because maybe they can find weekend hunts and whatnot. Sam never thought it was going to happen, but he hasn't done anything in three weeks and he's itching for a new one. Maybe it's a side effect of having a demon fuck with your blood.

"I'm using Connors _,_ " he answers. "Why?"

" _Because you're John Winchester's son, idjit. That makes you famous._ " After Sam sighs, Bobby adds, " _Tell him if you want. He's a kid and a Harvelle. Little more open minded than some other dicks who call themselves hunters._ "

He turns right, taking the long way back to the dorm. "Naturally I end up with this," he says more to himself than Bobby. "You haven't told Dad yet, have you?"

" _You seem happy there, Sam. I ain't planning on ruining that for you._ " And thank fucking God for that because he knows his Dad would pull him straight out if he knew. Except for Bobby, Caleb, Jim, and a couple of idiots he's run into along the way, he hasn't met many other hunters and sometimes he thinks that was less distrust and more paranoia that someone else would know about him. Though he only officially found out two years ago, he knows his Dad always suspected something was wrong with him; enough bad shit happens around him is proof of that. " _What're you planning on doing?_ "

"Tell him, probably," he says. "Keeping it hidden is hard enough as it is and I can't imagine it's much better for him. Uh, thanks for giving me the heads up."

" _Just be careful_ ," Bobby tells him, wary now. " _I like the kid from the few times I've met him and all but I care about your safety a little more._ " Yeah, he thinks, 'course you do. Not like I've ruined anything for you yet.

"That's the thing," he says, pushing his hands through his hair. "I hear midterms are stressful. I mean, I'm used to doing more than the amount of schoolwork I have because Dad isn't all that good at research, but still. Better give the hunter a warning  _before_ I kill the power of the apartment building."

" _That bad?_ "

"Last time I got into a fight with Dad I exploded every sink in the motel." Again, he sighs. "I think it's because I haven't really tried to pin a control on it or whatever but it's getting worse than just death visions."

There's a pause on the other line before Bobby says, " _You'll be all right, kid. Besides, thought that was the better option._ "

Though he doesn't say it, Sam knows he means leaving the psychic thing loose like this isn't creating an expressway to being Miss America, as Yellow-Eyes put it. "Well, last week all that—that whole mess happened and I didn't do anything. Or have a vision or whatever."

Even as he says it, he knows it won't last that way forever. His record's a month and that's almost up. " _Well, hope that keeps up. Now, I've gotta go back to working phones but tell me what happens. I mean it, Sam._ "

He smiles slightly because he knows he does. "I'll call you tomorrow at the latest," he promises and hangs up.

Five minutes later and he's entering his apartment, trying to regulate his breathing because this is going to be hard. He tells himself he can do it later but he knows he has half an hour until Cas comes back, and forty-five minutes until Dean leaves for work and he for class. There's no way in Hell he's looking forward to this, no matter how confident he sounded on the phone.

For all of a second he feels hopeful because his roommate's nowhere in sight, but that's shot down almost immediately when he exits the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair. When he sees Sam, he stops and gets that smile on his face. Naturally he gets a crush on a hunter. A  _guy_ hunter, too. "Hey, kid, you're back early."

"Hey, Dean," he says, knowing how nervous he sounds. "Uh, you've got a minute?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean answers, taking a seat at the table. "What is it? You need help on anything?"

He shakes his head even though he  _wishes_ he had help. Goddammit, why did he have to tell Bobby he would do this? And it's not like he can chicken out when he said he'd call. After a moment of hesitation, he blurts out, "Are you a hunter?"

And he's been a one long enough himself to know when someone's on guard. "Excuse me?"

"Bobby Singer told me," he says, holding back a wince. "Said Dean Harvelle's a hunter and you said you grew up in the Roadhouse, so I'm guessing—"

"You know Bobby?" Dean cuts it, visibly relaxing. "Wait, what? Are you a hunter too or just someone in the loop?"

"Hunter too," he says. "My real last name's not Connors. Sam Winchester, nice to meet you. John Winchester's son."

Dean looks down at the table, mouthing the name before says, "I've never met the guy, but he worked with my dad a few times. Holy shit. First Garth, now you? What're the fucking odds, man?"

Through his worry over how this was going to go, he'd forgotten about Garth. "I don't know," he answers with a shrug. "I seem to attract kind of fucked situations, though. How'd another hunter end up in Stanford?"

"I've lived in one place," he says. "Mom made me work my ass off in high school. Would ground me from hunts if I started slacking off and all that. What about you?"

He might be telling the truth here but Dean doesn't have to know the  _whole_ truth. Yet. "Spent my whole life living out of hotel rooms," he says. "I guess I want to try out something else. I meant to start going on weekend hunts when I got here but haven't gotten around to looking yet."

"Solo or with your dad?"

"Solo."

If possible, this smile is the brightest he's seen so far. "Dude, you want a partner?" he asks. "That's what I was just doing—looking for a hunt, I mean. I've gotten Cas to come along a few times before but this isn't just a vengeful spirit."

Maybe it's just the release of stress or whatever, but suddenly Sam's finding himself smiling too. "That's literally perfect," he says. "But, dude, seriously. What the Hell?"

Dean throws up his hands. "No fucking idea, Sammy, but who the fuck cares?" Okay, he's way too giddy right now. So much for giving this up, but if he has a partner other than his Dad this might actually end up fun. "There's something going on in Blackwater Ridge in Colorado," he adds. "Sounds like some sort of creature. If we leave after your last class tomorrow, we should be by noon."

"I'll do all my homework tonight," he says, leaning against the table. Considering that he technically isn't allowed on solo hunts anymore, this is actually kind of awesome. "Any idea what it is?" Dean shakes his head. "Well, research's kind of my thing and creatures are pretty easy."

"Ghosts are easier."

"Not for research. Creatures take more common sense than guesswork." He pauses before asking, "So, how many people know you're a hunter here?"

"Charlie overheard Cas and I talking about it," he answers, "but in my freshman year, our dorm hall was haunted. Thing turned into a vengeful spirit by second semester and decided it would be a  _great_ idea to go after the room with the only hunter in the school. Cas was in there and he's known Meg for ages and she was visiting, so they got the hard introduction to the supernatural."

The one time someone in a high school saw any evidence of him tied to hunting, Dad relocated them in a day. "Friends" is an unfamiliar word, especially ones who know about everything. Maybe this counts as good luck, not bad luck. "Cool," he says. "And Cas was still willing to room with you for the next three years?"

"He's got this book that has hunting in it," Dean says, "and he was in so much shock that he laughed hard enough to cry over it. The bigger idiot's Meg who decided to go to school anywhere near us after—what?"

It takes him a moment to realize he's still smiling like an idiot. "Nothing," he says, making himself stop. "Just not used to this. I didn't grow up in one place, you know? If I make it from now 'til April, it'll be the longest place I've ever lived."

Dean, who doesn't seem to care much about making people uncomfortable, openly stares. "Mom always said most hunters with kids stuck in one place."

Again, Sam shrugs. "Kind of stops mattering when your 'one place' burns down in a fire when you're six months old."

Before the conversation gets anymore awkward, Cas pushes open the door, looking dead on his feet. Dean says, "Hey, wanna know something awesome?" right as the other boy opens his mouth to say something.

"What is it?" he asks instead, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Also you were right; the Garth kid's name is Fitzgerald."

Dean ignores that like it isn't important, which is true. "Sammy here's a hunter."

For a moment, Cas doesn't say anything, just looking back and forth between the two of them. Then: "I give up."

Sam blinks and glances at Dean, but from the look on his face he's guessing he doesn't know either. "What'd you mean?" he asks and their roommate just sighs before slipping into the bedroom.

When his friend comes back, he's holding open a book. The color is off-white, with a light blue line sketch of angel wings, and  _Only Fiction Has Happy Endings, KEVIN TRAN_ written on the top. He reads, "'For my mom, who loved me no matter what, and Sam and Dean, who taught me family doesn't end with blood.'" He looks up. "It's an anthology. My brother Michael picked my name from the short story 'Castiel's Home for Wayward Angels.' I'm pretty sure everything started getting weird when I found out Dean kills monsters for a living because that's what half the stories are about. I've told you about this, but thought it was too stupid to actually show you."

Dean snatches the book from Cas' hands, who doesn't protest, and flips a couple of pages. "Your mom read you this book when you were a  _kid?_ " he says. "Seriously, the fifth story is titled 'Aliens are Fairies and I Like that My Friend Has a Soul,' and thirteen is 'Never Trust a Man Who Seals Deals with Kisses.' What does that even mean?"

"Uh, well, each short story is a fictional retelling or at least I think," Cas answers, taking it back, "and no names are mentioned other than the angels and random extras. The brothers are referred to as Moose and Squirrel for whatever reason. In the first one Moose loses his soul after Castiel brings him back from Hell, which it never describes which is why Mom felt safe reading it to us, and Squirrel gets abducted by fairies he thinks are aliens for about half the story. In the other one a demon possessing a 'moderately successful businessman' makes Crossroads Deals with kisses. His name's Fergus."

"Crossroads demons actually do that," Sam says, seeing that the back reads  _10+_ , same as the  _Harry Potter_ books, and he wonders how you child-proof Hell or some guy walking around with soul. Or how that works. "Anyway, yeah, have to agree with you that acknowledgement is on the, um, stranger side of things."

Cas smiles, but it's weak. "Dean, I think I'm going to have to challenge your 'there's no such thing as coincidences' line."

"Better than thinking—oh fuck, I have work."

Sam checks the time on the microwave and sees that he's right. "Bye, guys," he says, throwing his backpack over his shoulder because even if he runs he's going to be late, and dashes out the door.

 _There's no such thing as coincidences_ sounds a lot better than  _accidents don't just happen accidentally_ , he thinks.

 

 

Dean tried to convince Cas to come along but work's still short on staff, which means he can't take off and he doesn't feel like getting the shit beat out on him anyway, so he ends up being alone with Sam. And he can't pretend he doesn't feel a  _little_ too happy about that. He already thought the kid was way hotter than he had any right being because he obviously has a thing for the Jess girl, but finding out he's a hunter makes his typically airtight denial fray around the ages.

Sam holds his phone close to his face, having hacked into the badly protected ranger database from the area. "Looks like a girl recently called in a missing persons report for her brother who's up there with a group of friends," he says, "but according to Ranger Wilkinson, he's got about another week in him. And a little over a week ago another group of campers went missing. That's the one you saw, right?"

"Yeah," he answers, taking the exit onto the highway. He's got a map and a GPS but as long as he looks at the directions beforehand, he rarely needs to use either. "I'm in this current events course thing to fill a requirement and we were talking about how that stretch of woods has a higher number of disappearances than any other camping ground in the Midwest. I checked it out and it'll happen every twenty-three years like clockwork."

For a moment the kid doesn't say anything, just fiddling around with his phone. "According to local newspapers, back in the Fifties a whole family was taken. Chalked up to a grizzly attack like all the others, but there's one survivor. When I can use my laptop, I'll look up his address."

"We should find out more about that Haley chick, too," he points out and switches lanes so he can speed past a brown sedan going ten below the speed limit. "There's gotta be a reason she thinks her brother's missing already."

He hasn't hunted with a partner for a while except that one time with the Jericho woman in white over the summer where his sister came along. "When and what was your last hunt?" he asks, genuinely curious because besides Jo, who barely counts, Garth is the only hunter he knows his own age and he kind of...sucks. Getting better, yeah, but still leaning towards the awful side.

Even though he isn't really watching Sam all that closely, he doesn't miss the slight hand twitch. "I haven't been in a solo gig in a few months but me and my dad tracked this demon to Chicago like three weeks before school and almost got killed by these separate shadow demons it was controlling and—"

"That was  _you?_ " Sam blinks owlishly in surprise before nodding. "Son of a bitch. Annie, this chick who comes to the Roadhouse all the time, went to search it out but the demon was exorcised by the time she got there. Good for you, Sammy."

Sam turns away from a moment but not before Dean catches his blush. "Yeah, well, demons are a lot easier to deal with when you've got them stuck in a devil's trap."

"You know how—"

"Bobby showed me. Don't think it's that impressive. I used a flash bomb to get rid of the shadow ones but they came back. Dad got slashed up good and I came away with this." He pulls down the collar of his shirt, revealing thing long scratches on their way to becoming permanent scars. As he covers them again, he continues, "Hurt like a bitch. There's another on my hip. I can show you the devil's trap, though. Got a chalk one under my bed right now."

"Dude, that's awesome," he says and speeds up again rather than slows down to miss the red light. "I've never seen a demon before, 'less you count black dogs."

Sam grimaces. "Well, get ready," he says. "Starting a year ago, more demons started coming topside for the first time in  _decades_."

Something about the fact that this not-so-random kid knows all this shit about demons is unsettling. He's learned enough himself to get by—what hurts them, two different exorcisms, that the hallowed ground legend doesn't actually work—but most hunters can go twenty years never seeing a single one. Still, he  _had_ heard about the increasing number of possessions lately. Kind of hard not to when you're a bartender six out of seven nights a week and very few non-alcoholics drink the way hunters do.

"Hey, if we make a good team, we might run into one eventually."

Though the kid smiles back, it looks strained and Dean still isn't good at asking people what's wrong. "What about you?" Sam asks.

For the next time minutes, he explains about the woman in white and how the husband looked like the one from  _Courage the Cowardly_ dog according to Jo and that spirits like to fuck around with his Baby. After that, conversation changes, and they swap between stories of hunts (pagan god disguised as a scarecrow for Dean, a real life Bloody Mary for Sam) and school-related stuff and half an hour later, he pulls the Impala into the ranger's office. Sam gives him one last, excited smile that he returns with a smirk before he pulls open the rickety screen door.

 

 

Meg's over, sitting on the table in her inside-out shirt when his roommates come stumbling through the door. They're both wrecks, obviously scrubbed down halfheartedly with wet wipes, but Dean's the worse of the two. He gives the two of them a tired grin but doesn't say anything other than call dibs on the shower first and disappear into the bathroom. Sam flops into a chair, folding his arms and looking ready to crash. He smells like a thunderstorm and wood smoke.

"So you're the baby hunter?" Meg says, looking down at him and Sam just glances between the two of them.

"You're only like a year older than me, aren't you?" he answers and she shrugs. "Anyway, yeah. Cas, be so fucking happy you weren't there. It was a Wendigo."

He has to sift through his knowledge of different supernatural creatures he'd learned from reading all of Dean's books and openly shutters when he remembers what one that is. "Hundred-year-old cannibals who stock up on humans to eat so they can hibernate," he tells Meg so she isn't completely lost before focusing on Sam again. "What happened to Dean? He looks worse off than you."

"Got nabbed while protecting this chick and her brother who we couldn't stop from coming along," he answers, brushing his hair off his forehead. "But then we found a flare gun so it was all good."

"How'd you avoid getting caught?" Meg asks, by this point as unaffected by the whole hunting business as he is. Typical side effect of getting caught up in two hauntings on completely separate sides of the country within a year. Except for Dean and apparently Sam, she's got the worst luck of anyone he's ever met and considering that his brother is Mike, that's saying something.

"We were separated," Sam answers. "I got stuck with the little brother and Dean left a trail of  _M &Ms_, which is a lot better than anything I would've thought up."

Suddenly, from the bathroom, they hear Dean's muffled shout of "Cas, where the fuck are the towels?"

He cringes, having forgotten to put any of them back from when he washed all their shit this morning and he knows how much it sucks to be that dirty and go to reach for something that isn't there. "Be right back," he says, and scrambles to the bedroom, taking one from Dean's set out of the laundry. When he knocks on the door, it only opens a crack, his friend's sticking his arm out and Cas cringes because he see the long, cleaned out scrap. He wonders if he would've taken this job if he hadn't had back up.

Actually, he  _knows_ he would've. Because this is Dean and he doesn't turn shit down. In their sophomore, he didn't show up by Wednesday and Cas actually called Ellen to save his ass. He would've killed to see how that shouting match went down.

When he comes back to the others, Sam's telling Meg about the Wendigo tying Dean up in a cave and how his shoulder's still out of whack. Cas has stayed at the Roadhouse for a few weeks at a time more than once, but he's never actually had the opportunity to hear a completely sober guy regale the story of a hunt, or another one around their age. And though he's sure it must've been terrifying when it actually happened because the story has a sort of "in hindsight" feel to it, Sam's now explaining the whole situation with a smile and hand gestures. Meg's obviously enjoying it but, honestly, anything about Dean screwing up that doesn't result in serious injury or death will inevitably be entertaining.

After Sam finishes, he asks, "So what've you two been up to?"

"Cleaning, homework, and pizza," Cas answers. "Also, got this one a job."

"Lucky for Uriel isn't what I would call a greatest trade, but getting out before cold turns to arctic sounds like a grand idea," she says as she pulls her hair back. It's late September, and sweltering hot outside still. He bets the Colorado mountains felt nice compared to this. "But I know the real reason Clarence was so sweet to me was so he had a higher chance of staying away from all the big scary people that frequent college town pizza places."

Clarence was a nickname she started using on him back in high school and after five years, he's given up trying to get her to stop. Goddamn inspirational Christmas movies. "What? I hate working the counter."

Dean finally exits, fully and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom. "All yours, kid," he says, and Sam's already in before he finished speaking. "Hope you two behaved yourselves while we were—fuck!"

He's wearing a t-shirt, revealing that the cleaned scrape is bleeding again. Meg stands and grabs the first-aid kit from below the sink. "Over here, Harvelle, you can't reach that on your own." Though he grumbles something Cas can't hear, he lifts his arm and let's her fix him up. When the disinfectant touches his arm, he swears. "Aw, does your boo-boo hurt real bad?"

"Shut up, bitch."

"Keep sweet talking me and this can go in a whole new direction."

Dean sputters into a laugh that Cas joins into and Meg is fighting back a smile. Sam emerges from his five second shower, floppy hair wet and glued to his forehead and for the first time since he got here, all the scars on his arm are visible. The night's easy and fun but something about the way Meg said that nags at him, even after she leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, despite what the relationship tag says, I'm not sure I'm actually going to make a pairing at all. And if I do, I'm not sure if/who I will give one to Castiel. Suggestions?


End file.
